Too Far From Where We Once Belonged
by Dollar Short
Summary: Takes off from 'Family Remains'. Sam forces Dean into a confrontation to show him how much they've both changed. They ain't in Kansas any more.
1. Chapter 1

**Too Far From Where We Once Belonged.**

**S s S s S**

"_Demons I get. People are crazy."_ Dean, 'The Benders'

"_Do you even know how far off the reservation you've gone? How far from normal, from human." _Dean, 'Metamorphosis'

"_Dude was a monster, Dean_." Sam. _"...__humans__, man._" Dean, 'Family Remains'

**S s S s S**

_A/N: Truth be told I'm not totally buying what Kripke's selling this season. And 'Family Remains' was not an episode that I hold dear. However, Dean said one word, uttered with such disdain that the ol' hamster wheel started spinning and I was forced to commit this fic. _

_Disclaimer: The above quotes and characters are the property of Mr. Eric Kripke, everything herein after belongs to him and his cohorts. Dagnabbit._

**S s S s S**

The blue glare from the television flickered across the otherwise unlit room. Bouncing off the walls, randomly illuminating the darkened corners and casting dancing shadows across the pale angles of Sam's face. Occasionally Dean would look up from screen but Sam did not move or glance in his direction. He sat cross legged on his bed, hands limply resting on his knees, his gaze fixed firmly into middle distance.

If he hadn't known better, in part because he had never caught Sam at it before, Dean would have sworn that his brother was meditating. Maybe it was a habit that Sam had picked up while Dean was suffering the agonies of the end result from his stupid crossroads deal.

Hell. Dean snorted in disgust, he had endured decades of pain and Sam had started meditating. Fucking pathetic.

It was getting tedious. Dean swiped irritably at the open packet of chips on the adjacent cushion and shoved a large handful into his mouth, crunching noisily and then crinkling the packet vigorously as he groped for his next helping. Sam did not stir, eyes lost to the dark, all else seemingly unseen and unheard. Dean snarled at the televison screen. Sam had barely managed more that two or three words since his broken confession. '_I tortured souls and I liked it.' _Dean had expected a little more effort from Mr. Sensitive.

No more dewy eyed looks of concern or stuttering attempts to comfort him, Sam had leant against the passenger window, slumping away from the driver's seat and focused his attention on watching the world slipping past the car, as if he'd never seen it before. At first Dean was unconcerned at the lack of communication. He didn't want it; nothing Sam could say or do would relieve the ever present storm of guilt and painful desperation that raged within him. And when he did speak the words that fell from his mouth did their very best to remind Dean of what he had done and what had been done to him. The less said the better. '_It must have been hell', _Sam had said of the life of the girl who lived in the walls. Dean had put him straight on that one.

At the motel they had sat together on the couch, both picking listlessly at the delivered Chinese takeout, Dean ramping up the volume and letting late night re-runs fill the silence between them. That was until he had glanced up to find Sam staring at him, head cocked, brows drawn, his face like a puzzled puppy oblivious to its owner's commands yet determined to please.

"Fuck off, Sam," he said blandly turning back to the television. Sam hadn't so much as blinked, rising smoothly from his spot beside Dean and settling on his bed, assuming his present position.

The studied silence was oppressive. Sam had certainly been a lot quieter than before. Before the hellhounds, before their tense reunion in another nameless fleapit, as witnessed by Bobby and that demon bitch Ruby, but this was different. Had his confession been too much for Sam? Was his brother overwhelmed with shock or worse, disgusted by Dean's soul baring? That wasn't Sam's M.O, but then, Dean admitted to himself with some reluctance, people change. Sam wasn't the same person any more and it wasn't as if it was his fault, it was just that Dean could help feeling that Sam hadn't really tried that hard to stop it.

Dean sighed as loudly as possible and upended the chip packet, tapping the foil to get the smallest salty remnants into his mouth. Two messy mouthfuls later he tossed the empty packet over the back of the couch and wiped a greasy mouth across the back of his hand. Now he really needed a cold beer.

Grunting he got to his feet and stopped. Sam was standing by his bed, watching him with an almost calculating gleam in his narrowed eyes. Dean felt a sudden chill crawl across his skin. Something was wrong and he couldn't help but acknowledge the tiny thrill of satisfaction that he felt. He had always known that Sam was in too deep, that despite his heartfelt denials his brother had long since gone off the rails. What had triggered Sam to reveal his secret, Dean couldn't guess. He wasn't afraid, surprisingly; in fact he relished the anticipation of a confrontation with his little brother. Of course, there was always the possibility that Sam had decided that his big brother deserved a beat down for his stint as one of Satan's unwilling minions, but Dean preferred to think not.

"What?" He growled, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near suspicious.

Sam bit at his top lip and shook his head. "Never could get anything by you, Dean. Sorry 'bout this but it won't last long, promise." Sam raised his arm, palm up; fingers splayed outward and closed his eyes.

What the fuck? Dean stared in horror at the familiar stance. No, no. This wasn't the game plan. He'd been half expecting Sam to go all yellow-eyed on his ass, or all righteous defender of what was good and proper. Unlikely, but with some people you never can tell. This, this was just stupid. Dean had checked, he was all Winchester, demon-free guaranteed. Angel approved warranty, no less.

He'd put a stop to this quickly enough. Stepping forward to knock some sense into his brother he couldn't help but gasp at the rush of charged air that rolled over him. The energy flowed over him, sweeping over his body, tingling across his skin and shocking his muscles into a painful paralysis. He couldn't move, his lungs seizing in his chest, electricity worming its way throughout his body, its fiery power pulsing into his bloodstream and pounding its way to his heart.

No, Sammy, the cry never making it to his frozen lips, his eyes locked on his brother. Sam was shaking with effort, perspiration pooling on his temples, his arm rigid and unfaltering.

It's going to take more than that to send me back to hell, Dean thought savagely. Think again little brother and without understanding how or why, he pushed, stoking his anger, his gut trembling at the wellspring of energy that was growing at his centre. His insides clenched and he pushed again with body and spirit. He could feel it, track the sensation of his own power. A bubble swelling up and radiating outward, a protective corona that expanded rapidly in the air around him.

Sam's eyes flew open. He flinched and after a couple of seconds he relaxed and dropped his hand, eyeing Dean with a thoughtful gaze. Dean found he could move again, his weak muscles protesting at their ordeal he fought to stay on his feet, bracing himself for Sam's next move.

Sam dragged in a deep breath and plopped down on his bed and ignoring Dean completely, started to laugh loudly apparently delighted at the recent proceedings. After a minute or so of helpless giggling he turned to Dean, who was clutching the back of the couch quivering with the effort of keeping upright, and with eyes bright laughed some more, arms wrapped across his stomach as he tried unsuccessfully to contain his mirth

"What the hell's so funny?" Dean yelled hoarsely, thoroughly confused and extremely annoyed. "Did you just try and exorcise me, you dick?" He gave up on standing and flopped across the couch.

Sam wiped his eyes and nodded, too choked with laughter to reply. His face twitched as he tried to compose himself.

"Yeah, hell boy. I tried," and he chuckled. "Not exactly an exorcism, though. Just testing a theory I have. You passed with flying colors by the way."

"What? What the fuck are you talking about, Sam. What did I do?" Dean glared across the room and tried to suppress the little voice inside that was telling him he knew damn well what he had just done.

"You tell me," Sam said cheerfully giving Dean a beatific smile, "You freak."

TBC..


	2. Chapter 2

**Too Far From Where We Once Belonged.**

**Chapter 2**

**S s S s S**

Dean worked his jaw, trying to form some sort of coherent sound.

"Wha.., I'm not like …" He stopped abruptly and crossed his arms, jutting out his chin in muted defiance, lifting his head from the softness of the couch.

Sam's mouth drooped a fraction and mimicking his brother's demeanor crossed him arms and raised a questioning eyebrow. He had expected worse, still the half formed words stung. It didn't matter, though. The cat was out of the bag; Sam suppressed a smirk, a hellcat at that. Dean probably wouldn't appreciate the joke. Tough, payback's a spiteful bitch.

"Finish the sentence, Dean," he asked pleasantly and showed his teeth. Dean glared at him. "You're not like me. Is that what you were going to say?"

Struggling to sit up, Dean snapped, "No, of course not. I was going to say I'm not like _that. _I'm not demonic or anything. Your psychic mojo can't work on me. I didn't do anything."

Sam nodded. "Well, it's true that you're no more demonic than I am," he said deliberately, "I'm not sure about the rest," he cocked his head expectantly.

Dean met his eyes and said sharply, "What's that supposed to mean? I've never said you were a demon, Sam. I've been worried about you. Come on, bro…" he shrugged helplessly. "Cut the crap and tell me what the fuck that was about?"

Sam tapped his fingertips together, pursing his lips with a pensive air and studied Dean with an intensity that made him squirm. "Okay, if you want to get technical. You have implied on more than one occasion that I am somewhat less than human. You believe that my abilities, my visions and whatever, are the direct result of the influence of the yellow-eyed demon, or at least his blood. You have been expecting for the last two years for me go to ape shit evil, sprout horns and kick start the apocalypse. Be honest, dude. It doesn't seem to make any difference to you that every demon this side of hell wants to paint their walls with my guts." Sam moved forward eyes glittering in the gloom, "Give it up Dean. I can smell it on you. Smoke and sulphur. Never mind your angel friends; you've got hell's sticky finger prints all over you." He rubbed the end of his nose, "Funny, I kind of like it."

"Christo," Dean squeaked, burrowing back into the couch.

"Lame, Dean. Really lame," Sam jabbed an accusatory finger in his direction. "You've told me all about your time in hell, but I'm not allowed to share your pain. You flaunt it in my face like some fucking badge of honor, like you're so much better than me. You tell me if things were different you'd hunt me and then turn around and tell me you got off on torturing souls. And I've gotta tell you Dean, it's starting to piss me off."

Dean clamped his mouth shut and closed his eyes. "Please, Sam. Please don't do this. "

Sam sighed deeply, noisily exhaling through his nose. "I have to, Dean. I can't carry on like this. Back at that house, with those poor kids. You treated me like I wasn't there, as if everything was your fight and the whole time you refuse to see what's staring you in the face. I just gave you a shove and guess what? You shoved right back."

Dean remained still and did not open his eyes,

"Ruby told me." Sam watched as Dean flared his nostrils, distaste written across his face. "She told me what happens when you go to hell. How you lose your humanity, and eventually become one of them. Forget who you were and embrace the power that comes with it. " Sam paused. " Don't worry. You're not a demon. I know that. I guess it takes longer than you were there for, but you're not quite human anymore either, Dean. Not quite normal. You're somewhere in between. A freak created by demons and nothing you can do can change that now." Sam couldn't contain the tiny tremble of relief that shimmied through his chest as he finally let himself say the words he had been holding back for so many weeks.

"Sammy," Dean's voice cracked and his eyelids fluttered open, fear pinching his mouth and filling his eyes.

Sam smiled at him sadly. "Sucks, doesn't it?"

Dean grabbed at the back of the couch and sat up. "How do you know? How do I know you're my Sam and not something dressed up to look like him and fuck with me?" He lunged upward and slapped his hands on Sam's chest, pushing him away. It was a feeble attempt, Sam stumbling back a step or so and easily regaining his balance. "You're lying," he panted, "it's what you're good at."

Sam had to admire his brother's tenacity, not that Dean's denial of their predicament would make the slightest bit of difference.

"Jesus Dean, how can you see where you're going with that huge freaking ego? I'm me," he tapped a finger to his heart. "Always have been. And if you got your self-absorbed head out from your ass, you'd feel it too. You know, I don't feel any different, not really. Not even after I died. Just the same old same old, but ever since you died..." he broke off, waylaid by the familiar stab of grief that always came with that memory.

Something close to understanding flashed across Dean's face. It was better than nothing, but Dean turned way, pacing around the room, kicking at the television as he went. It rocked on its stand and fell silent with an unhappy pop. The room was in darkness. Sam didn't move, there was a sudden crash and Dean cursed loudly.

"Dean?"

"It's okay. I fell over the coffee table. Ouch. Sam?" Dean whined, "I can't get up." Sam went over and hauled him to his feet.

"Uh, thanks, man. I suppose I should be grateful that your eyes aren't glowing in the dark." Dean straightened up, smoothing down his rumpled clothes.

"Your gratitude it touching," Sam replied dryly and switched on the light. Dean ran a hand through his hair and laughed nervously.

"Okay, I give. Say you're right, that I am different from before. Tell me, Sam. How does it work? What is it? What does your shining tell you?"

Sam propped himself against the wall, lowering his eyes suddenly uncomfortable revealing what he had so carefully kept hidden from everyone. " Sometimes, I can sense things about people. Little things, stupid stuff. Where they were the day before. What mood they're in, and when I get close to a demon, it the same only it's their, I don't have a word for it. Their demoness, I guess. Like their power. I can feel the heat from it. Sometimes it really hot and strong, other times not so much."

"And me?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, a little trickle running through you, that and you stink of brimstone. You should lay off the Axe body spray. They don't mix well together." Sam banged his head gently against the wall. "Sometimes if I'm quiet and sit very still and listen I can hear it inside me. In my blood, pumping around my body." He shivered.

Dean looked stunned for a moment and then quickly recovered. "I think I need to sit down."

The couch springs creaked as he dropped heavily into the seat cushions. "So maybe you've got a point, or two. Even if you're right and hell has left its mark on me, how do you know that I did anything? How can you sure that I'm not immune to your demon exorcism whammy?" Dean fluttered his hands in the hair. "How do you know that Castiel didn't lay some angel protection voodoo on me. Wouldn't that make more sense?

Sam moved to end of the couch and looked down, scrunching up his face in disbelief.

"Uh huh. So your legs just decided to give up on you then? The reason you're looking so wiped is, what? Too many jalapeño chips? I felt what you did Dean. Not bad for a beginner but it takes it out of you. All that power." Sam bent over, his face only a few inches from his brother's. "All that power rushing up from the very depths of your soul, filling you from the inside out until you can't hold on to it anymore and it breaks free, leaving you empty. Drained. Pleasure and pain in one killer package. Don't you feel it?"

He blinked down at Dean, his nose twitching at the faint of trace of ozone that hung in air between them.

Dean sniffed and rolled his head against the back of the couch. "That sounds like a cue for a crack about your sex life. Now, get out of my face," he smacked an ineffectual hand at the shoulder looming over him. "And," he coughed delicately, "it didn't feel like that. It kind of bubbled up," he pulled a face; Sam's wide smile was back. "It just welled up, sort of like a psychic fart."

Sam gave a short cackle.

"So what now? What do you want me to do? Is there some sort of demon groupie union we've got to join? Whose side are you on, Sammy?"

"Your side, you idiot." He sat down next to Dean. "You mean you're not going fight me on this. Tell me to be normal and pretend nothing's changed."

"No. Not for the moment. Just you wait; we'll probably both be zapped by a righteous lightening bolt of heavenly wrath tomorrow. But what the fuck. I'm tired of it all. Castiel, Uriel, Lilith and your evil little girlfriend. They can all go to hell." He nudged Sam with his elbow."Right Sammy?"

Sam nodded, pursing his lips in agreement. "I'm working on it."


	3. Chapter 3

**Too Far From Where We Once Belonged.**

**Chapter 3**

**S s S s S**

It was a crisp clear morning, with pale blue skies and a smattering of wispy trailing clouds. Underfoot tiny pine cones crunched in a way that reminded Dean of walking across icy spring snow. It was curiously satisfying. A thick frost sparkled in the morning sun. Golden tinted sunbeams filtered through the forest, fanning out from behind the shadowed tree trunks, the radiant hand of God reaching down from the heavens to touch the cold earth and warm the soul of man. The type of morning that should make a person feel glad to be alive. It was a beautiful day and Dean saw nothing more than dirt and sky.

They were waiting by a ramshackle cabin at the end of a narrow dirt road. Only used by hikers now, it had a thick carpet of moss of its roof and mounds of pine needles covered the small front porch. Dean scanned the trees that lined the road behind them. The forest around chattered with the low song of birds and the occasional indignant squeak of a squirrel. Dean wished they would shut the hell up.

Sam was sitting on the hood of the car, huddled into his jacket and leaning against the windshield, his head nodding as he dozed. Not so long ago it was Sam who hardly ever slept, plagued by nightmares and a past that he hated but could never seem to let go. Lately, Dean would find him napping whenever he could. It didn't seem to matter where, any spot into which he could contort his lanky frame would do. Dean rocked on his feet, the ground crackling under his boots. He had actually slept very well that night, or early morning. A deep, dreamless sleep that had left him feeling groggy and disorientated when he awoke. Sam's little demonstration had left him bone tired. Dean yawned, he wasn't convinced that it he was own efforts that had exhausted him. He trusted his brother he just wasn't quite sure if he believed him.

Dean looked over at the car, Sam was twitching in his sleep, eyes moving under his lids. He made a soft sound, breathing out a low cry of distress. Some things never changed.

"He looks so cute when he's asleep. Don't you think, Dean?" Ruby stepped out from between the trees and Sam jerked awake, sliding ungracefully from the car.

Dean stared vacantly at Ruby, wondering if he should be concerned by his lack of reaction to her appearance. They had been waiting for her, after all. Sometimes it was just so damn hard to care.

Ruby glanced between them, Sam rubbing the sleep from his eyes and Dean's indifference shrouding his face.

"Fast reflexes, boys. I'm beginning to wonder how either of you ever made it out of puberty." She pushed past Dean, and his muscles murmured restlessly under his skin. She stood by the car, hands on her hips, glowering in disapproval at Sam.

"What is it, Ruby?" Sam massaged his face and Dean thought he seemed distracted and vague. Not his usual attentive self, the one Dean found so irksome, as he usually was when his annoying little demon sidekick came a knocking.

Ruby tapped her foot, her voice as frosty as the ground beneath her. "If you're up to it. I wouldn't want you to strain yourself. I know where Lilith is."

"Where? What's she doing?" Sam stalked around the car, his drowsiness gone in an instant.

"Is she trying to open another seal?" Dean spoke over his brother.

Ruby tossed her head, flipping her hair over her shoulder and glaring peevishly at them both. She looked every inch the sulky teenager and possessed or not, Dean wondered how far gone, how lonely and hopeless Sam must have been to seek comfort in her arms.

"Where, is my business. You're not going after her, there's a couple of chores I have to do first and," her eyes raked over Sam, "you wouldn't stand a chance against her at the moment. What the hell's wrong with you?"

Sam winced, his eyes darting to Dean and ignored the question. "So what do you want then?"

"I've heard of some activity, some of Lilith's lackeys over on the east coast." Ruby stopped, her face reflecting some internal struggle. Dean didn't like the bare emotion he saw in her eyes. Things like her shouldn't carry such things with them.

"What's wrong?" He growled. Ruby quirked an eyebrow in his direction.

"You know Dean, there's something different about you." She stared at him for a moment and then shook her head.

"Ruby." Sam was impatient.

"Something's going on. Wethersfield, Connecticut. There's a small village, or I should say there was a small village, a settlement about 15 miles from the town. It was called Matthewstown. I've heard that they're searching for something. I don't know what it is but Lilith wants to get her hands on it." Ruby spoke briskly, her attention wandering to the tall tree tops and the sun climbing through their branches.

"One of the seals?" Dean asked again.

"I don't think so. She'd be there, if it was. I'm guessing it does have something to do with them. Here," she pulled some folded sheets of paper from her pocket and waved them at Sam. "Instructions on how to find the place. It's in the woods surrounding a large mansion. Private grounds. I doubt too many people even know what the ruins were or how old they are. What's left dates from about 1700. Now get going." She shoed them away.

Sam turned towards the car, crinkling the paper under his nose as he scanned its contents. "How do you know all this," he asked peering over the top of an unfolded sheet of paper.

"I used to live there." Ruby replied and smiled coldly.

S s S s S

Dean was happy to be back on the road, Sam could tell. Dean was always at his most relaxed behind the wheel and today was no exception. He thought about bringing up the prickly subject of the events of the previous night, but he realized that caution was the name of the game. Slow and steady was the only way to win this race. There were other things he wanted, no, needed to share with Dean. Until last night nothing on earth, or any other realm, would have reassured him that Dean would handle anything Sam might tell him without prejudice and his fists. Sam studied the notes Ruby had given him.

"So Ruby was running around the New England countryside over 300 hundred years ago. Kind of makes you think. So what are we supposed to stop Lilith and her evil henchmen from finding?" Dean asked.

"She says here she doesn't know. Matthewstown wasn't lived in for that long. Apparently the town was burned to the ground in about 1698. People living there were accused of witchcraft and their land and possessions were seized. A few were executed and the others were banished. After that it was overgrown by the woods and forgotten about. Ruby had left for Wethersfield before it all started. " Sam reread Ruby's oddly neat notes.

"I'm having a vision," Dean said "Ow."

"Huh. What?" Sam looked up startled, his heart rate rising painfully fast, thudding hard in his chest, shaking the papers in his hand.

"Hmm. Yes. I see Ruby and what's that she's doing?" Dean squinted, eyes on the road ahead. "Oh yeah, being a big fat lying bitch."

Sam hid his relief, holding the notepapers to the window and looking away. He breathed quietly, taking a slow calming breath. Dean didn't know. Good. He forced his attention back to his brother who was still talking.

"…was she human then? I wonder what she did when her innocent neighbors got taken down for the things that she did? She was probably one of those doing the finger pointing. Good way to hide, if you're an evil demon dealing witch. And you trust her." Dean sighed, exasperation rather than sarcasm tingeing his words.

"Not this again. She saved my life; I take as I find, Dean. I trust her, until she gives me reason not to. You wanna do this or not?" Sam tried to sound like he didn't care, anxiety snaking through him as he waited for Dean's reply. It was confusing because he honestly didn't know which answer he wanted to hear.

"Nothing better to do."

"Me neither." Sam replied and realized with surprise that he was pleased. This was what he needed to do.

S s S s S

The setting sun cast long shadows through the bare trees and painted broad orange strokes across the graying sky. Scattered amongst the trees and ivy were heaps of stones, ancient low walls that were once the foundations of people's homes. What was left of the village was spread over a good square mile and they had split up not long after arriving. Sam had found nothing that suggested anything or anyone had come to visit Matthewstown in a long time.

S s S

They had left the Impala parked by the side of the road which cut through the woods and circled around the private estate. Half a mile into the trees they had stumbled upon a lichen covered stone cross. Sam had been surprised by the inscription, the cross was dated 1992. Left in a lonely wood, a modern memorial to the brutal reality of those who had lived and died nearly 300 years before, it filled Sam with an aching melancholy.

"Same date as the Salem memorial." Sam told his brother.

"Too little, way too late," Dean was unimpressed and had stomped off into the trees. The words were like a hard hand to Sam's face and he hunched over, leaning on the damp stone of the cross. When it came to bad memories, he was spoilt for choice.

S s S

The sound of laughter, light and feminine, floated between the trees. Sam stole quietly across the soft ground, following the sound of more than one voice.

He crouched down, hidden by a large holly bush. The sharp pointed leaves scraping the side of his face.

There was Dean, standing on the narrow trail that meandered throughout the ruined village. He was with two girls, young and pretty. They were dressed in warm and inappropriately tight outdoor gear and hiking boots, both carrying backpacks. One with long white blonde hair pulled into a pink beribboned ponytail, the other shorter and darker with killer curves. They were both smiling at Dean.

Something deep within Sam stirred, roused by not by worldly instinct but by the spirits of darkness and malevolence. Couldn't Dean tell? Couldn't he see what was right in front of him? Sam wasn't sure if it was both of them or just one. The heat rippled through the twilight air, smothering his pores and choking his skin. It was strong, too strong to be just one demon. They seemed unaware of his presence.

"Hey, Dean. I've been looking all over for you, man." Sam stepped out into the open.

The girls jumped and swung round. "Oh hi," they chorused, flashing white teeth and lip gloss at him.

"Sam, these young ladies are from the Wethersfield historical society. Sylvie, Val this is my brother."

"He's very tall," one of the girls tittered. Sam didn't notice which one; he was too busy trying pull Dean's attention away from his lecherous perusal of various parts of the female anatomy. Dean glanced up, grinning. Sam widened his eyes and compressed his lips into tight line. Dean's grin froze in place.

"Ah. I see." He took a step back, the blonde girl whipped her head back round.

"Leaving so soon? Dean Winchester." She blinked slowly and smiled sweetly as her eyes turned inky black. Before he or Sam could react, Dean was lifted off the ground, thrown back and slammed into a twisted tree trunk. He slid down and landed face first in the dirt.

"Sylvie," her companion screamed shrilly and gulping for air, her mouth still open she stopped abruptly, wheezing as her eyes bulged and then rolled back into her head. She crumpled silently to the ground.

Oh shit. Sam shifted his feet further apart and locked his knees, trying to establish his balance. Only one, then. One dangerously powerful demon nicely wrapped and topped with a pretty pink bow. Sam took a deep breath and raised his hand, a wave of heat billowing across the space between them, scorching his palm.

S s S

Dean opened his eyes and closed them again. There was something important he had to do. What the fuck was it? He was outside, it was cold and he had dirt up his nose.

Pretty girls. Yeah. Sam. Uh oh. Demons. Crap. Dean jerked his head up, twisting to look over his shoulder. About 20 feet away his brother was locked in a silent and motionless battle, his hand reaching to banish and destroy Sylvie, or the evil that was wearing her. Even in the fading light Dean could see Sam trembling at the sustained effort of holding the demon at bay.

Sylvie held her arms out a few inches from her side, the top half of her body leaning forward. Her eyes narrowed and fixed on Sam, her mouth curled into an arrogant sneer. She wasn't moving towards Sam, but Dean was sure it was only because she had no need to. He had no idea what to do. How could he help? Short of flinging himself at the possessed girl. Which he knew, would only be a temporary interruption. No knife, no colt, no nothing.

Sam grunted and for a moment his body sagged. Shaking he straightened up, his raised arm beginning drop. Dean scrambled to his knees and scrabbled across the leaves and branches to Sam's side. Up close he could see the blood beginning to trickle from Sam's nose and to his horror a bright red tear leaked from under his tightly shut eyelids, running down his face to drip off his chin. Sam was losing the fight.

"Dean," he whispered hoarsely and opened his eyes, they were glazed with a watery red sheen and his tears left bloody streaks over his skin. He wavered and then fell to his knees, his arms limp and Dean grabbed at him as he went down. They landed heavily on the ground. Dean clung to his brother and something tugged at him. It was the chilling sensation of being pulled from the inside, as if he were exhaling in one long never ending breath. Sam shuddered in his arms.

"Dean," he pleaded urgently and raised his hand to the demon once more. The air between them crackled and Dean felt the surge sweep through his body, instinctively he pushed at it and it was dragged from him. The searing energy wrenched by an unseen hand from every corner of him body and soul and flowing into his brother.

Sam was vibrating against him, the charge within him reaching critical levels. Dean heard him snarl and knew the precise moment that Sam let it loose. Air molecules around them dancing synchronously. A split second later there was a strangled scream and Dean peered over Sam's shoulder to see Sylvie staggering back, the telltale wisps of black smoke flowing from her mouth and downward to burn. The body of the young woman toppled to the ground . Nothing moved or made a sound, even the wind seemed to drop away, unwilling to bear witness to the dark forms invading the quiet woods.

"That was different." Dean whispered in disbelief, exhausted by his involuntary actions. Sam slumped back, his breathing labored and Dean found himself struggling to keep them both upright.

"Dean," Sam murmured, "I'm going to pass out now."

"Go ahead, I'm not going anywhere."

They stayed sprawled together on the damp earth and let night fall around them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Too Far From Where We Once Belonged.**

**Chapter 4**

**S s S s S**

The flesh under his fingertips was cool; he pressed deeper into the skin and was rewarded with the sluggish roll of a pulse. Dean looked up to where Sam was clumsily pulling the backpack free from the other body now hidden by the pall of night.

"She's alive," he was surprised and relieved. Sam's face was a pale blur in the darkness. His kneeling form a shadowy silhouette against the rustling movement of the woods around them. The moon was still too low in the sky to provide any light and the darkness was becoming more and more impenetrable. Whatever they were supposed to be looking for would have to wait until daylight.

"She is? We should get her out of here and dump her at the nearest hospital." Sam grunted, freeing the backpack and yanking at the zipper. Dean flinched at the dull knife of anger that dug into him and in spite of his weary body sharp words rose to his lips.

"Dump her? Nice Sammy. Glad to know your so concerned about you fellowman," Dean stood, "or fellow woman. You know? Saving people".

Sam was rooting around in the bag and glanced up, frowning as if he hadn't quite heard Dean's words, or if he had that he didn't understand them. He upended the bag and shook its contents onto the path, bending down to examine them. He picked up something and held it close, squinting in the low light for a second or two before dropping it carelessly onto the cold ground.

Dean grit his teeth, his head ached and his muscles were making lackluster complaints, not having the strength to do much else. He stepped over to his brother and whacked him on the shoulder. He regretted it immediately, as he heard Sam's tiny gasp of pain but he couldn't get his mouth to fall in line quickly enough.

"Earth to Sam," he said tersely.

Sam rubbed his shoulder and asked mildly. "Do you have a problem Dean? She's been lying there for over half an hour now. There wasn't a lot I could do, as I was out cold for most of it. Considering how strong that evil bastard in her was and how much it took for both of us to exorcise it, she's lucky." He grabbed Dean's sleeve and pulled himself to his feet while Dean stood rigid and unmoving, completely failing to summon any counterargument. "We're lucky. If you hadn't…" he stopped and leant in close to Dean's face, breath warming chilled skin. "Oh, that's why you're pissed, is it? Because you took a step down that slippery slope you're always going on about and exorcised a demon." Sam tapped him on side of the head and said with mocking emphasis, "With the power of your mind."

Dean ducked away and swatted at the offending digit. "Sam..." he warned in a low voice.

"If you hadn't I'd be dead. You too. Now get over yourself." Sam was unsympathetic.

Dean tried to thing of something cutting to say. He didn't like it, not one measly iota. Sam was right, but it was all so very wrong. This was not who he was and certainly not who he wanted to be. He opened his mouth to mention something of the same, when Sam swayed toward him and dropped his head onto Dean's shoulder and before he could stop himself Dean found his hand resting gently on his brother's hair. Keeping up with Sam's mood swings was becoming a full time job.

"Dean." Sam murmured into his jacket.

"Yeah." Dean acknowledged grudgingly.

"I know you hate this, man. I get that. Can you just," Sam gave a muffled sigh "can you just let it go. Right now. Tomorrow you can lecture me on how I'm the spawn of Satan or whatever floats your boat, but just not now. Okay? I'm tired and I'm probably going to hurl on your shoes."

Dean contained his own sigh and raised his eyes to the night sky, a few stars twinkled through the low cloud. "I don't lecture. I give informed opinions and that other bit; let's no go there, ever. But yeah I'm letting go. See, going. Gone. And please don't hurl." He patted Sam's hair.

Carrying the unconscious girl between them and with little coordination or finesse they managed to navigate through the dark woods, only dropping their burden twice and eventually emerging by the side of the road and the Impala.

Dean slid behind the wheel. "Hospital?"

"No idea," Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, rolling his shoulders and found himself glancing behind him to where Sylvie was slumped on the back seat. A feather light sensation of pressure ghosted across the back of his neck, a subtle addition to the physical and emotional upheaval that he inevitably experienced in the wake of an exorcism. If he had any less faith in his abilities Sam would have suspected that some hellish residue still polluted the young woman. He shivered.

"We could dial and drive," he suggested tentatively, knowing that Dean would most likely object to leaving the girl in a public place and dialing 911 on the nearest payphone.

"We could." Dean said tightly and then surprised Sam by nodding. The car accelerated and as they rounded a bend in the road the woods on either side thinned and in the distance the lights of houses and highways winked at them through the winter trees.

A few minutes later they pulled into the parking lot behind a large restaurant.

"Go phone for a bus," Dean got from the car and pulled seat forward, grabbing Sylvie's shoulders and hoisting her from the car. Sam watched until her feet were free of the doorframe. Her backpack lay in the foot well behind the driver's seat. Dean leant back against the door, one arm around the girl's waist as she flopped forward.

"Give me her bag. Quickly, she's heavier than she looks." He gestured impatiently with his free hand. Sam pulled the bag from behind the seat.

"Did you check it?" He asked lifting the bag in the air and his muscles reacting instinctively he let it drop into the front seat. He knew there was something in there. Knew it, rather than felt it. A division of labor he could never explain to anyone else but was now an intrinsic part of who he was. It was the difference between an unasked for vision and his own blood fueled ability to sense the power of demons. It was the difference between before and after. Before Jake and his knife. Before Dean's deal. And after. After Lilith and her white light. After Ruby and her dead host. Such were the milestones of his life.

Lilith, who had sent her demon faithful to search for something left behind in a tiny forgotten place. He looked out at Dean.

Dean wrapped both arms around Sylvie's body and heaved her to one side, glaring at Sam. "What? No. Would you hurry up?" Sylvie's limp form slipped through his grasp and Dean struggled to tighten his grip. "For's fucks sake Sam, get a move on." He peered into the car. "What's wrong?"

Sam blinked at his brother and had to quash the sudden impulse to laugh or very possibly cry. There was a loaded question to which there was no answer adequate enough to convey the extent of the horrendous, ridiculous chaos that was their life.

"Nothing," he replied distractedly. He knocked the backpack to the floor. "I'm going." He left the car and Dean and headed for the restaurant and a payphone.

They waited until the sound of sirens wailed in the distance and left, leaving Sylvie slumped in the shadows of the family friendly diner.

They drove on, bypassing the highway and following residential streets past houses and schools and the bright lights of comfortably normal suburbia.

Sam kept quiet, trying to block his awareness of whatever Lilith's little treasure hunt had unearthed, he wasn't paying particular attention to where they were headed until he looked up and noticed the grand houses that lined the street.

"Uh, Dean? I though we were headed for a motel. This doesn't look like our type of neighborhood. In fact," Sam pressed his nose against the cold glass of the window, "it looks like the kind of place where people call the cops if they see someone like us."

"I never figured you for having an inferiority complex, Sammy," Dean drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "It's been a rough day. I fancy staying somewhere with style. We deserve it." The car slowed and Dean pointed through the windscreen. "There."

Sam followed his gaze. It was a three storey house, in the narrow arc of the streetlight it appeared to be painted a deep maroon. Gabled windows cut into the roof and tall narrow windows lined the second storey. The first floor windows were shuttered. It reminded Sam of a child's drawing, a slightly uneven rectangle with evenly spaced windows, a chimney stack rising at one end of the roof and the front door bang in the middle. The house was old and Sam did not like it.

"I'm sure the owners will be thrilled." he said with little enthusiasm.

"Come on, Sam. You know the signs. Jesus, you can exorcise a freaking demon, but you can't spot a house shut up for the winter. They're in Florida or the Caribbean or wherever rich people go when it gets too cold for them and their money. Don't worry, we'll be stealthy." Dean was as cheerful as Sam had seen him in the previous 24 hours; it seemed churlish to deny him the distraction of a little breaking and entering. Sam remembered the bag at his feet; a more private setting than a motel wasn't such a bad idea and maybe Dean would forget about his 'God thinks your powers suck' speech, he could only hope.

"Okay, you can handle the alarm system and if the cops turn up, I don't know you." Sam agreed, resigned to exercising his squatter's rights.

"Deal." At least Dean seemed happy for the moment.

S s S

They closed all the drapes before turning on any lights and then only table lamps, keeping any telltale signs of uninvited guests to a minimum.

Sam eased himself onto a huge pillow strewn couch in the living room at the back of the house. The house was imposingly furnished, with dark reds and maroons covering walls and furniture alike. Velvet fabrics, golden tassels, mahogany and antiques were abundant. The décor, although of mostly modern manufacture, added to the heavy sense of times past that hung in the air. Sam ran a hand over the smooth, worn surface of an old chest that served as an end table. Antiques of any sort made him uncomfortable. Anything where the weight of age marked the surface and seasoned what lay beneath, however beautiful or well crafted it might be. He'd never liked the idea or feeling of how many people had come and gone in the presence of such objects. He had always imagined he could sense the imprint of those who had spent their life touching, loving even hating these everyday things. Lives full of ups and downs, disappointments and death. Sam closed his eyes; he could hear Dean rummaging around in the kitchen across the hall. A microwave pinged.

Perhaps he'd always known that he was different and nothing anybody could have done would have ever changed what he had become. He sat up and looking over at the empty fireplace and the piled logs around the hearth decided that the room was too cold. The backpack sat waiting on the floor.

Small flames were curling around the split logs and consuming the small bundle of kindling Sam had found tucked behind the log basket, when Dean came in holding two plates of steaming food with a bottle of wine tucked under his arm.

"You should see the stuff they have in the freezer. And I was right, the fridge is empty. Cleaned out while they're away." He saw the fire. "Very cozy. See much nicer than our usual pit stop. Now eat. Then you can tell me why you keep looking at our pal Sylvie's backpack like it's going jump up and eat you." He handed Sam a plate, "It's not it is it?"

Sam's fingers curled around the warm china. "I think it's inevitable, don't you?"

Dean settled beside him, propping his feet on the cherry wood coffee table.

"You're such a pessimist," he chided and attacked his meal, pausing only to open the bottle and fill some rather fancy cut crystal wine glasses to the brim.

Sam gazed into the ruby depths of his drink.

"You're supposed to leave room in the glass for it to breath." The mellow warmth of the wine was seeping into his bloodstream and making his head swim pleasantly until the only sensations he was conscious of were the physical comforts of softness and warmth and a full belly. The fire was crackling happily in the grate and Sam decided that his brother had made a good choice. This was not bad, not bad at all.

Dean smacked his lips, "Too late," and stood his glass on the table. He reached down and pulled Sylvie's backpack onto his lap.

Sam sloshed his wine over the intricate brocade cushion under his arm.

"So," Dean tugged open the bag, "I'm guessing that Lilith's little pal found something in the deep dark woods. And you were too chicken shit to tell me."

Sam knocked back a mouthful of wine, gulping noisily. There was no point denying the truth.

Out of the bag came a bundle of black silk. The silk looked new and clean, it had obviously not been hidden it any ruins. Dean held it in his open hands. He wiggled his eyebrows at Sam and placed the cloth and its contents on the polished table.

The faintest whisper, distorted by distance and time, drifted to Sam's ear.

Dean knelt over and unraveled the silk wrapping. A large silken square soon covered the coffee table and in the centre sat a human skull. The lower jaw was missing and the bone was brown with age and covered in small clumps of dried earth. Burnt into its surface were crude markings. Oddly posed stick figure and twisting lines. In the center of the forehead was carved a cross and a date - 1680.

Across the room the fire hissed and spat. Dean brushed his fingers lightly over the skull.

In some infinitely cooler and more detached corner of his mind Sam wondered if time had really slowed to a successions of badly cropped freeze frames, while the more volatile parts watched in petrified panic as the glass in his hand tipped ever so slowly sideways and its contents trickled onto centuries old floorboards, pooling at his feet like so much freshly shed blood.

It shouldn't have been that shocking, he'd seen the damn thing before.

"I wonder if these mean anything. What does this do that Lilith wants her grubby hands on it?" Dean rocked back on his heels, his attention fully engaged in examining the aged artifact; he slid the black silk around, rotating the skull for a better view.

The pointed crystal ornamentation of the wineglass stem dug into his clenched fingers as Sam stared at the dirt encrusted pictograms, the answer forming on his tongue even before his alcohol addled brain had processed the information received from his eyes.

"False prophet," he whispered and the glass stem in his hand snapped, slicing into his flesh.

Dean twisted around, his eyes boring into Sam before darting back to the skull.

"How the fuck do you know that?"

Sam held out his bleeding hand and stared at it uncomprehendingly before turning to his gaze to his brother's troubled face.

"I don't know," he said.

...


	5. Chapter 5

**Too Far From Where We Once Belonged.**

**Chapter 5**

**S s S s S**

_A/N: Many, many thanks for all the reviews. Always greatly appreciated. Cheers to Cheers, I'm afraid to say I'd take it, and thanks to LJR for your kind comments on this and other stories. _

**S s S s S**

The chill of the ice laden kitchen towel was effectively numbing his fingers and staunching the flow of blood from the cut on his finger. Sam wrapped the towel tightly around his hand, while Dean fussed about mopping up assorted fluids from floors and furniture, darting narrowed eyed glances in his direction.

The skull still sat on the coffee table, its empty orbits staring somewhere over Sam's shoulder.

"You stay there. I'm going to dump these in the kitchen." Dean waved a sodden mass of kitchen roll under his nose. "And then you can tell me what, if anything, is rattling around that over developed cranium of yours." He disappeared into the kitchen and Sam could hear him muttering as he went.

Sam nodded dumbly, and slumped back into the couch to stare at the ceiling, although he couldn't help peering down his nose at the skull. The spindly figures etched into the bone meant nothing to him, individually or as a whole. He was no archeologist or linguist, he could not decipher their meaning, the knowledge came from within him. A pavlovian response to a constant specter that haunted his subconscious mind.

The couch shook and Dean was back, sitting next to him and clutching some tape and gauze. "Hand," he ordered.

Sam sat up and offered his towel clad hand. Dean tugged the wet cloth free and set about binding up Sam's cut, grumbling as he did so.

"I'm beginning to feel like a freaking housewife, feeding you, tidying up after you. Fixing your boo-boos."

Sam cleared his throat in embarrassment and was about to point out that he had managed quite efficiently on his own for some time, but Dean continued.

"Oh, don't worry about it. For a demon killing child of ungodly hell spawn, you're pretty inadequate in just about everything else." Dean bit off a length medical tape, winding it around the cut at the base of Sam's finger and smoothing it down.

"Thanks, I feel so much better." Sam said peevishly and pulled his hand back, cradling it against his chest.

"So." Dean nodded to the skull.

"So." Sam echoed unhelpfully.

"So," Dean stared at him impassively, "What's with this 'false prophet' crap? What are you keeping from me this time?"

"I told you I don't know." Sam turned his gaze to the fireplace and the dancing flames. "I don't know how I know, I just do. Okay." He took a fortifying breath and the fire flared. "I have seen it before," he stopped and turned back to his brother, a half-smile half-grimace twisting his mouth.

Dean held his gaze for several long uncomfortable seconds, his eyes steady and assessing. Sam realized with a guilty start that he was testing Dean and he wasn't sure if he was going to be happy with the results.

"You've seen it before," Dean broke the silence. "You've seen this skull, which until a few hours ago was buried or hidden in some God forsaken tumbled down shack that no one's lived in for over 300 years. I see, well, I don't, obviously. But you do, Sammy. When did the visions start again? Or did they never stop?"

Sam dropped his head, fiddling with the frayed edge of tape on his finger. "They did stop. Until you died. The day after we buried you, me and Bobby, I passed out. Bobby thought it was, you know, everything that had happened. Losing you." Sam's voice broke slightly and he gave himself a small shake. "It was partly that, I mean I probably wouldn't have hit the floor, otherwise. It wasn't as strong as the ones before. I didn't think it was a vision. Not really. Just, I don't know." Sam shook his head, his memories from those days and weeks after Dean's death were jumbled and messy and he found it hard to separate the reality of what had happened from the grief stricken turmoil of his own mind.

"Sam." Dean spoke quietly, a simple statement of his presence.

"I kind of ignored it. I can't even remember exactly what it was about. Then the dreams started. More than dreams, but not anything that made sense. And, yeah you're going to say I told you so, but the more I was with Ruby, practicing," Sam splayed his palm, "the more dreams I had."

"I told you so. There, got that out of the way. And the skull?" Dean prompted gently.

"I don't know when. I've seen it in my dreams, more than once, but nothing that would mean anything. I guess I wanted to ignore them. I just told myself they were a side effect of what I was doing with Ruby."

"Did you tell her?" Dean's asked more sharply.

"No. God, no." Sam said quickly, to Ruby bad dreams were just bad dreams. A human weakness, one more thing to be exploited.

"What was that first vision? You don't remember anything? You used to recall the tiniest detail. That's how they worked, right. That's how we found people. Like Andy and that bus company." Dean was insistent.

Sam raked a hand through his hair. "That day, I was such a mess. One minute I was in some shitty motel and next I was standing on this hillside. It was dry and dusty and there were old stone walls around me and I could see for miles across these empty plains, and then I woke up with Bobby yelling in my face. There might have been more but that's all that stayed with me."

"That's it?" Dean sounded disappointed. "So you've no idea why Lilith wants this thing?"

"I told you, no," Sam looked at the skull; he had sensed it in the car earlier, maybe if he touched it he could learn something more. He leant forward and reached out an unsteady hand.

A loud bang rocked the house. Sam snatched his hand back, turning to stare with wide eyes at Dean, but Dean was already up and half way across the room.

"Front door," he cried over his shoulder.

Dean slid across the polished floorboards of the hall. Grabbing at his jacket that he had dropped carelessly onto a chair, he fumbled for his gun. Another loud bang and Dean heard something crack. He stumbled around the corner just in time to see the front door fly open, wrenched from its top hinge. A man stood in the doorway, dressed in oily coveralls. Taller than Sam and twice as broad, the guy was huge and more that just his sheer physical presence made Dean recoil. He backed up as the stranger stepped into the light of the house and pulling off his greasy baseball cap he cocked his head at Dean and smiled.

Fucking stupid, Dean cursed himself. He made it a point to discard or distrust almost anything that came out of Ruby's mouth, but ignoring the fine print was what got you killed. Not that he'd give that bitch the satisfaction. She had told them Lilith had sent her 'lackeys', plural. As in more than one.

"There you are. Not so hard to find after all," the demon leered through its host, eyes a gleaming ebony.

Afterwards, Dean clearly recalled making the decision to raise his arm and shoot the possessed man, but something deep down, buried underneath years of training and experience told him to turn and run, and without realizing what he was doing, he obeyed.

"Sam" he screamed, "Get the skull and get upstairs, now." He took the corner at full tilt, colliding with the wood paneling, and pounding up the hallway. Sam was at the bottom of the stairs, a ball of black silk in his arms staring in horror at the lumbering figure whose heavy footsteps shook the walls and unseated the delicate ornaments on their tastefully appointed shelves.

"Go, go," Dean shoved him bodily and together they scrambled up the unlit stairs, falling onto the first landing.

"Dean," Sam gasped plaintively. Dean knew what he meant. Why run? The Incredible Hulk was possessed and on their tails. There was nowhere to go, but no way was he letting Sam even think about trying his little exorcising trick on this guy. He could rip them apart with his bare hands without any demon's help.

"Up, go up." Dean hustled Sam toward the next flight of stairs, overcome by a sense of urgency and certainty that he had no time to question.

The top landing opened into a large open room with vaulted ceilings and lined with the narrow gabled windows they had observed from outside. Through the tall windows the mellow sodium glow from the street lights fell across the room, striping the floor in alternate layers of light and dark and partially illuminating a door set into the carved paneling of the far wall. The possessed giant huffed and puffed up the stairs. Dean was grateful for small mercies. He was surprisingly slow for a demon on the hoof.

"There's no where to go boys. Give me that skull and I'll make it quick." A large hand grasped the top of the stair rail.

Dean grabbed Sam and pulled him across the room. The door was unlocked and very solid; they tumbled into the room behind it. It was very dark. Dean slammed the door shut and slapped at the wall until he hit the light switch.

The room was about 15 foot square and filled with old cardboard boxes and battered plastic totes. A tangled knot of Christmas lights sat in one corner, an old floor lamp topped with a wonky green shade lit the room from the other. There was no window.

They stood staring at the door and panting. Sam bent down and carefully placed the wrapped skull on the floor, he took a small step forward.

"No," Dean pulled him back. "Don't, not yet anyway." Sam was frowning at him when the door swung open.

"Now what was the point of that," the demon and host, were quite out of breath. He leant on the open door.

Dean gripped Sam's upper arm, telling himself it was just to make sure his little brother didn't do anything foolish.

"Now," the demon smiled and lurched forward and got no further than the threshold, staggering back, arms raised against an unseen foe. He roared in anger and threw himself at the doorway again bouncing back, hitting an invisible barrier and then hitting the floor.

"Dean?" Sam whispered

"Beats me," Dean whispered in reply, the frantic thumping of his heart drowning out the smug little voice that told him he'd been expecting this.

The possessed man struggled clumsily to his feet and cautiously approached the door sniffing the air, a predator puzzled by an unfamiliar scent.

"Very clever, but you can't stay in there forever. I'll make myself comfy over here," and he sat down on a bench seat set into the furthest window, out of Dean's line of sight.

Dean moved closer the open door and craned his neck. "Hi," he called. The demon spat at him.

Sam was circling the room, eyes sweeping over the walls.

"This is a panic room. Like Bobby's," he spoke softly, wonder in his voice as he ran his hands over the carved architrave that framed the door and ran around the room like a picture rail. "Only there's no iron here that I can see. Must be these sigils or something built into the walls." He rapped the walls with his knuckles, "A long time ago, old magic."

"Oh, really. Neat." Dean said, keeping his eyes on the figure by the window.

"Yeah. What a coincidence. You picking this house. Chance in a million." Sam sounded alarmingly like the voice in his head.

Dean shrugged. "Hmm. Winchester luck," he said, throwing out the first words that came to mind and then cringed, knowing he'd left himself wide open.

"You're fucking kidding me." Sam's voice rose above a whisper; he nudged Dean aside and peered through the door. "Let's get this over with," he said, directing his voice across the shadowed room.

The demon rose to his feet and Sam let slip a long suffering sigh and raised his arm.

No, Dean meant to say. It's too soon, the words dying on his lips as he felt the first infinitesimal vibration well up from within his brother. Sam's eyelids fluttered and at the very same moment the demon snapped his jaws in frustration and throwing back his head left his host, black smoke gathering high in the apex of the ceiling before swirling downwards and dissipating through the paper thin gaps around the window.

The discarded human being, now free from his hell born parasite sagged slowly to the floor, gargling quietly.

Sam opened his eyes. "Shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, I suppose." His shoulders slumped and he turned to retrieve the skull as Dean trod softly over to the man lying on the floor. Short snorting breaths rose into the air. The guy was out for the count.

Sam brushed past him, stepping over the snoring body. "Come on, leave him. I'm not hauling his ass downstairs. He sounds healthy enough; he'll come round in a few hours. But first you, me and Skeletor here, need to talk.

"Seriously? We caught a lucky break, that's all." Dean whined. There was nothing Sam needed to know, nothing that was anything more than a fortuitous fluke. He was not like his brother. Sam was the one who kept secrets, not him. He told him about what he'd done, about being in Hell. Wasn't that enough?

Sam stared at him silently, his eyes reflecting the orange light shining in through the window. Considering his previous confessions and their narrow escape Sam was unnervingly self-satisfied.

"You're a crappy liar Dean, that or you're completely deluded. Our luck ran out years ago, but I guess something else has taken its place. Don't you think?" With the skull tucked under his elbow, Sam started down the stairs.

Reluctantly Dean followed him, the ancient timbers of the house laughing quietly as he stole past them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Too Far From Where We Once Belonged.**

**Chapter 6**

**S s S s S**

Sam placed the silk covered skull back onto the coffee table and sat, elbow on knees staring into the dying fire. Dean had expected him to follow through on his threat and actually try to talk; instead Sam appeared to be indulging in a good old fashioned brood.

Dean stayed by the door, torn by his own indecisiveness. They had to keep moving, keep on doing what the Winchesters did best and yet it was such a god awful mess and Dean didn't know who or what they were anymore and he didn't know what he was supposed to think.

Did he care? Should he heed Castiel's portents of doom or was Sam right? Were they too far from where they started? Did the rules even apply to them anymore? Dean would have always said he was never one for keeping in line with the regulations. Undermine the system; stick it to the man, Dean's personal mottos. Rules to live by, in fact. Dean hated irony. A few pointers, guidelines on how to handle psychic siblings and the unwanted side effects of spending too much time with demons would be pretty handy right now.

His feet made their own decision and took him back to his brother's side. Sam had closed his eyes and a small line of concentration cut into his brow. Dean opened his mouth to speak and snapped it shut as Sam raised his forefinger for silence.

Dean sat and waited, trying not to fidget and tried not to think about the stranger lying in the attic and the lingering energy of the room that he could feel drifting down the stairs. The distinctive scent of magic and otherworldly power that he hadn't even known he could recognize. After a couple of minutes, he realized he was drumming his fingers lightly on his thigh; he immediately stopped and huffed impatiently.

"Do you remember what Dad told you?" Sam asked suddenly, making Dean jump. "What you told me that day by the river?"

"Should I?" Dean stalled. Any time John Winchester cropped up in discussion was a time to man the battlements.

Sam opened his eyes and continued to study the fire. "Oh don't be so shy. I doubt I'll ever forget it. The whole 'I've gotta save you or kill you Sammy' routine."

"Oh. That." One more conversation high of the list of things Dean would rather forget.

"What do you think Dad would think of us, Dean? We've both died, been brought back by supernatural forces and I have visions and can exorcise demons and you… What can you do Dean? Sniff out centuries old protections charms. Give me an ass kicking power boost when I need it and, what else, Dean? What did they teach you in Hell?"

"Nothing." Dean bristled, determinedly hanging onto his anger and letting it transmute into physical agitation. He had learnt many things. About pain and hate and how to use such things to destroy a man's soul. He leapt up, moving to the fireplace and throwing more logs into the grate.

"So I'm a little more sensitive that I used to be. I was in Hell, as you so astutely keep pointing out. I was there for decades, and an angel, Sammy; a freaking angel restored me to my body. Let's not mention the mind bending torture, shall we. I ain't exactly in mint condition."

Sam looked at him with something akin to sadness in his eyes, and nodded. "I know. I was dead too, for a while. Not a long as you, sure, but I hope this is not going to turn into some type of pissing contest, with you pulling out the 100 years of torture trump every time."

Dean grabbed a poker and stirred the embers. "It was 30 and if that's what it takes to get you off my back then, yeah, I think I'm fucking entitled to."

"I remember. Being dead. Being somewhere else." Sam said casually and smiled tremulously.

Dean dropped the poker on to the stone hearth where it clattered loudly. This was not on the agenda; in fact Dean had always held the understanding that it was a mutually agreed no-go zone.

"I thought you didn't, you never said." Dean wasn't sure he wanted to know and was suspected that this was some kind of conversational ambush on the part of his brother. He was good at those.

"I didn't remember at first, it was months after." Sam wrinkled his nose. "Ah, that's not quite true. I always had a sense of it, but it wasn't what you'd call a memory it was more of an impression."

Dean resisted the urge to nod. He might have told Sam about some of his more vivid memories but much of his time down in the pit was a disorderly hodge-podge of ill defined sights and muffled sounds.

"When I first came round. I knew I had died. I knew I was back and I shouldn't be and it felt like I'd been gone forever. Like a whole lifetime had come and gone, almost as if I'd lapped myself in a race and when you came in the door and were so glad to see me I thought you weren't my Dean, but the next one. I know that sounds stupid and you probably have no idea what I'm talking about. But wherever I was dead, I spent another life there. It wasn't Hell. You win the pot on that one. But if it was Heaven, then I've got to say, Heaven sucks."

Sam eyes lost their focus and Dean felt a surge of irritation and however unreasonable he was being, he did not want to hear where his little brother's soul might or might not have been.

"Why didn't you tell me Sam?" Dean groused. How many other things was Sam hiding? Dean was losing arguments before they had even started because Sam was always pulling the rug from under him, skewering his defenses with nasty little revelations. Dean decided he was going to have to start writing things down.

"Because you were going to go to Hell. I needed to break your deal. What difference would it have made to you? You were already thinking that I came back damaged in some way."

"I never thought that." Dean denied with as much conviction as he could muster, which wasn't much. He hadn't thougth that, at least not until that creep with the yellow eyes had suggested it.

"Yeah, you did. Still do. Funny thing is you are too, now. Damaged. Broken. Why did you choose this house Dean? Why not some cheap ass motel and a couple of economy sized of bags of salt?" Damn it, Sam was good at this, Dean realized as his brother finally snuck in the question that he had no real answer for, not one that he wanted to share, anyway.

"I thought we'd hole up in a private house, it's not the first time we've done it. So I headed for the suburbs, I don't know what to tell you. I saw this place and I just thought, that's it. It's closed up. It looked safe. Hand on my heart." He slapped his hand to his chest.

Sam squinted up at him. "Liar."

"Huh, I must have heard that wrong." Dean cupped a hand to his ear, "_You _called me a liar."

"Don't be such a fucking jerk, Dean. Just tell me you can't feel it running through the walls of this house, because I can, only because I now know there's something there. Took me a while. Not like you. Why'd you go upstairs, Dean?" Sam was on his feet.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time?" Dean stood his ground. Sam rounded on him with an intent expression on his face and what looked like confrontation on his mind. As he brushed past the table he caught a trailing edge of the black silk, it unraveled as he pulled it along, the skull in its wake following the silent glide of silk to the floor.

It landed upside down and spun unsteadily for few seconds before stopping at Sam's feet. "Shit," he muttered in annoyance and stooping down, scooped it up with one hand.

"Is it okay?" Dean asked eager to change the subject. "Typical. A couple of centuries hidden safely away in secret and you break it within a couple of minutes."

In reply Sam choked out a strangled peep and remained hunched over, his fingers gripping the skull.

"Dean," he whimpered and fell to his knees. "Take it, please. I can't …" His hand was shaking, fingers taut across the smooth bone of the skull. He keened softly, a sharp note of pain that brought Dean to his senses, as his brain, previously occupied with the task of sidestepping Sam's interrogative attitude belatedly caught onto the fact that all was not well. It was one damn thing after another.

Dean dropped down and wrenched the skull from Sam's hand, pulling at his stiff fingers still locked in position; its surface was warm, prickling at his fingertips. He tossed it onto the far end of the couch, away from Sam.

"Sammy?" He pushed at Sam's shoulders, who slumped toward him twitching, his head jerking erratically and his eyes round with shock as he met Dean's anxious gaze.

"Bye," he breathed regretfully and his eyes rolled back in his head as he pitched forward into Dean's arms.

"What? Hey Sam. Sam." Dean shook his brother. That was weird. The movement seemed to roll through Sam's body and then rebound, traveling back up Dean's arms. He couldn't control his actions, his muscles debilitated by a palsy that shook him to his core. His body trembling from top to toe, he was rapidly losing his grip on everything. His vision blurred and his hold on the here and now dwindled away to nothing.

**S s S**

He first coherent thought was that the warmth on his back must be the fire, although if that was the case someone must have left the door open because a brisk breeze was blowing across his face and damn, those were sharp rocks digging into his knees. Dean's eyes popped open.

Oookay. So not in Kansas anymore, Dean thought, frantically trying to suppress the wave of hysteria that accompanied the process. He was kneeling in much the same position as he had been in the old house. Only there was no house. Around him stretched the open plains of a rocky desert, gentle hills rising and falling into the distance, covered in scrubby brown vegetation and punctuated with tufts of green. Old stone walls cut into the slope that rose behind him, the hot midday sun cutting through high scudding clouds that left swift passing shadows across the dusty ground. Dean scrambled to his feet, swiping at the sand that blew into his face and spinning around, desperately trying to make sense of it all.

At the top of the slope was a pile of rocks, fashioned by the hand of man and not by nature. A lone figure stood next it, turned toward the distant horizon, hair dancing in the wind.

"Sammy." Dean didn't mean to scream quite so loudly, the excessive volume ringing in his ears and echoing across the barren landscape.


End file.
